


Starry Night

by nerdyydragon



Series: Kingsman Tumblr Ficlets [58]
Category: Kingsman (2014), Kingsman (2015), Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Harry Hart Lives, Implied Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, M/M, Pre-Slash, its implied that he has more of them, paint, panic attack - I think like he's clearly distressed here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 03:32:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8733145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdyydragon/pseuds/nerdyydragon
Summary: People tend to assume a fair amount about Eggsy Unwin, from what kind of person he is to the things he does for frivolous enjoyment. They also think that he would be less cultured in a relationship with Harry. This isn't strictly true - Harry doesn't have one ounce of artistic talent in his whole being. But Eggsy, oh he does. And he uses that any way he can.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer*  
> So Eggsy definitely loses control of himself here - for anyone who has panic attacks or severe anxiety just a heads up but it's brief, not super in-detail, and near the end(ish). It's more implied that he has panic/anxiety attacks as a result of PTSD than anything else.

Everyone assumed, due to their difference in ages and upbringings, that Harry was the more artistic of the two. That he would prefer painting and sketching and going to art museums. That’s not to say that this wasn’t true - one of his favorite memories with Eggsy was the two of them at the Louvre. Eggsy had all but outright refused to hold his hand while they were there, content to stand slightly away from him and enjoy the exhibit separately (when he had asked, the young man’s only response was that  _ “The signs say not to touch the masterpieces, Harry” _ ).

 

But it was Eggsy, rather than Harry, who had an affinity for fine art.

 

Ever since he had begun going to school, he had always taken to the art stations like a moth to flame. Though under-funded, even his south London school had provided them with the tools to nurture their creativity, and Eggsy had loved every minute of it. Before his mother had married Dean - and before he got old enough to realize that his talent would likely never amount to anything, try as hard as he may - every time he would finish a project he would bring it home for his mother to see, and were it possible she would hang it on the fridge. For his eleventh birthday, his art teacher had given him a sketchbook with sturdy paper, capable of holding anything from graphite or charcoal to acrylics without damaging the other pages, and it was the one thing he had carried with him throughout his life. Eggsy treasured his art, and even when he had to give up gymnastics, even when Dean took his mother and gave him back an empty shell, it was his escape.

 

That hadn’t changed when he met Harry. If anything, Harry was even more impressed when Merlin had showed him the results of one of their tests - Merlin had given them a description of their target (going off of a photo he had pulled up on his tablet) that included everything from height and weight to the way they carried themselves, and tasked them with creating a visual image, as it was something they may very well have to do in the field. Eggsy had turned in his work in the shortest amount of time, and the results had been so similar to the man in Merlin’s photo that he had successfully run facial recognition and found a ninety-seven percent match. It seemed that on top of the skills the boy already possess that made him an asset to Kingsman, he was quick enough with a pen to be able to provide an accurate representation of someone he had never seen. Talent like that was hard to come by, and Harry had made a point of discussing it with him when they had talked briefly about his options should he fail the final test - not that Harry had truly believed that it would be needed.

 

Then Harry went to Kentucky, and all those hopeful plans went out the window, along with Harry’s life and one of the few good things Eggsy had ever had happen to him.

 

Eggsy sketches, he makes detailed cityscapes in charcoal, and he can do a perfect rendition of a London street after it’s rained solely in watercolor. But he also has panic attacks (what person, living the life he had and the one he had thrown himself into headfirst, would not have some sort of lingering effects of the trauma he had undergone?) and for those, to drag himself back under control, Eggsy turns to acrylic paints. They’re violent, and bright, and much more controllable than any other medium. He prefers them, especially in the mornings when he isn’t quite awake and doesn’t have the energy for precise lines. When he uses them, his work always comes out far more abstract than it otherwise would. And it doesn’t always stay on the page, either. There are mosaics on different parts of the walls in the hallway, the backsplash in the kitchen is an interesting wash of yellows and blues and orange, and the whole door in his ensuite is painted in swirling blacks and reds. The last was done in his first few moments alone in his new house, after V-Day, after Harry’s death. The violence had gotten to be too much for his brain to handle, and when he came to the pattern had been so intricate that he didn’t have the heart to paint over it. It served as a permanent reminder to everything he had done.

 

The first time Harry visits, the first time he sees the dog toys scattered throughout the house and the firm, thick coffee mugs that Eggsy insists are actually for tea and the warmth of the house that shows so many signs of life, Harry smiles at what his dear boy has built for himself on his own merit. He sees the painting in the kitchen and wonders silently at it, curiously, but says nothing. He almost broaches the subject when he passes the three in the hall on their way upstairs. When he sees the door to the ensuite, he examines it closely, brushes his fingers against the patterns so similar to those of blood spilling over tar, and he feels the prick of tears as they begin to cloud over his eyes. He turns back to Eggsy, who is standing next to the foot of his bed looking for all the world like an abandoned stray who just wants someone to care for him, and he blinks away the tears that are threatening to fall as he wraps Eggsy in his arms and they cling.

 

“I’m sorry, Eggsy.” Harry says against his hair, feeling the collar of his shirt dampen as Eggsy finally lets go everything he had kept bottled up inside. “This is my fault and I am so, so sorry. No amount of apologies will ever be enough. Not for what I put you through.” Eggsy shakes his head from where it’s buried in Harry’s chest.

 

“No it’s not, don’t think for a minute that you’re to blame.”

 

“If I hadn’t recruited Lee, then you -” Eggsy extracts himself from Harry’s arms to look at him, to be able to hold a conversation even though he doesn’t even look like he should be standing on his own.

 

“Then I just would’a lost him at some other point. My da knew what he was getting into, Harry. He knew what he was doing, throwing himself on the grenade like that. There’s nothing you could’a done to change anything. No matter what we would have ended up here.” Eggsy sat down heavily on the bed, wrapping his arms tightly around his knees so Harry couldn’t see the shaking that was already beginning to start. This almost always happened, whenever he talked about his father. Roxy was the only one who had ever seen how truly distraught about Lee’s death he was, even after all this time. 

 

“It’s not your fault. There was nothing you,” the tears were still falling, and he took a deep breath to steady himself as Harry sat gently on the edge of the bed, within arm’s reach of the middle of the mattress where he had situated himself. “There was  _ nothing  _ you could have done to save him.” Eggsy finished quietly, whole body vibrating now as he struggled to get a breath in, hit full force once again with his own helplessness to save anyone he cared about when it had mattered most. He gripped his hair tightly with both hands before getting up from the bed and shuffling past Harry to reach underneath it where he stored his art supplies. Pulling out the box of paints and running a hand reverently across the lid before opening it, Eggsy thought wildly for some sort of canvas, anything at all in his house he could use to paint.

 

“I’ve got this thing, that I do, whenever something like this happens.” Eggsy said, to Harry but also to himself and to the walls of the room, as though he had to qualify his own form of therapy. “You might have seen it. It, it helps. Mostly.” Looking back up at Harry, still shaking slightly, he could see that the older man was a mix of emotions. He was still upset, clearly, but he also looked strangely honored that Eggsy felt safe enough around him to let himself be so vulnerable. “I just don’t know where I’ll put something right now.” His voice was halted, as he was still trying to get breath in properly, but even just holding the box was enough to slow his heart-rate from the dangerous pace it had been going. Harry was silent for a moment.

 

“Paint on me,” he said, hardly more than a whisper. Eggsy quirked an eyebrow in askance, and Harry began to undo the buttons of his shirt. “Use me.” Eggsy nodded and Harry slipped his shirt off, grabbing a towel to put over his lap from the washroom before sitting cross-legged on the hardwood in front of Eggsy.

 

“It’s non-toxic, don’t worry.” He said. “Can’t have anything happening if my sis or JB gets into it, so it should be safe to do this. It’ll probably be cold and gross though.” Eggsy dipped his brush into the pot of yellow paint, laying out the rest of them - he generally had one for each color, helpful for when he didn’t want to think about cleaning the brush before putting it in a different pot. He raised the brush and hovered over Harry’s collarbone, looking at his face one last time before he began. “You sure you want to do this?” Harry nodded firmly.

  
“Of course. It helps you, and you need it.” Harry said, locking his fingers between Eggsy’s on his free hand and squeezing. “I think we both do.”


End file.
